America the Hero
by heliotrophy
Summary: Warning this story takes place during 9/11 and might be a trigger for some. England watches the news in horror as the world trade centers collapse. Unable to reach America, England already knows he must be at ground zero, being a hero.
1. Chapter 1

Warning! This story takes place during the September 11th terrorist attack and it might be a trigger for some people. There is also yaoi pairings, some swearing, and graphic depictions of injuries. This is a USUK/UKUS story.

* * *

><p>Monday, May 02, 2011 Transatlantic call<p>

"Hey, it's me. Do you have a minute?"

He squinted, looking at the clock.

"…uh, sure. America? What time is it?"

"I'm sorry, did I wake you? I wanted to tell you first."

He cleared his throat, "No, it's fine. Are you alright?"

"We caught him."

"Sorry, you're going to have to be more clear."

"Osama bin Laden. We found him."

"That's-that's good! America? Why are you crying?"

"There was a woman there, that died, because of us. She was being used as a shield."

"…America…"

"That shouldn't happen. I'm supposed to be a hero, to protect innocent people."

"It's not your fault…"

"It is my fault! I'm the hero! I'm supposed to make the world a better place, for everyone…"

England sighed, feeling his heart break at the younger countries words, "I don't know if that's possible love. It sure would be nice if it was."

* * *

><p>5:30PM, London England September 11th, 2001<p>

Arthur was restless that afternoon and didn't know why. His tea had already gone cold, from sitting undisturbed for the past hour. His head was thrown back and he was for once not thinking about anything in particular.

"What is wrong with me?" He mused aloud.

While he was prone to daydream, he was a poet at heart, it wasn't like him to sit around spacing out and not thinking about anything.

"Spacey, brainless...I wonder what America is doing right now?"

His thoughts wandered to the American and instantly made him agitated. "If I call him, he'll probably just say something like there's something more important going on in America right now."

His landline started ringing, but he ignored it for the moment. He didn't feel like talking and whatever it was could wait an hour.

England sighed loudly and went into the living room. Turning on the television.

"Breaking news- we have a live update in New York-, our correspondent with CNN was able to get this footage of the accident-"

England groaned loudly- he hated it when America turned out to be right-

The screen flashed then, to the world trade towers. England watched in shock as a plane crashed directly into the tower. The quietness of the video was surreal; there were no sounds of crashing, no explosive after effect, no screams, only the sound of the person taping swearing.

"Breaking news from an NBC correspondent. An employee of American Airlines

has confirmed that another 747 has hit the second tower."

England felt his legs go numb and sat down on the coffee table behind him.

"Many are now considering the possibility that this was a planned terrorist attack-"

As if on cue, his cell phone started to ring loudly. It was parliament and he arranged to meet them at the lords house. He spoke tersely, and hung up in under a minute.

Without thinking, England dialed the number to America's cell. The phone rang twice then went to voicemail.

"We're sorry, the recipient's mail box is full and we cannot record a message. Please try again later."

Trying again, and again, England gave up trying to call America and dialed Canada's number, for once able to recall the boy's existence without hesitation. His loud and too rapid heartbeat made the ringing seem slow in comparison. It also went to a full mailbox. He spent the next twenty minutes trying to call anyone that might know where America was.

After calling every other number he could think of, there was only one left.

It picked up on the first ring.

"Chèr? I've been trying to call you."

Good, it seemed like France knew what was going on and that meant he didn't need to mince words. "Have you spoken to America? Do you know anyone that has?" he asked hurriedly.

"Non-No, England." France said, for once curtailing his natural inclination to speak in French without being asked, "I've been trying to call too." He paused.

"England, don't panic. Remember the tube bombings? It's not that different-"

"It is different-" he moaned, "it's different because it's him and not me." the tears he had been holding back ran down his checks in full force, and he couldn't stop the ragged sob that followed.

"We'll find him! There's someone that knows where he is." France assured, his voice calm and even, but it broke on the last syllable.

"I-I know where he is..." England said quietly.

"You do?" France said, incredulous.

"He's in N-New York, at the attack site, or g-ground zero, or whatever they're bloody well calling it."

"He's being a hero..." England finished lamely and hung up.

He clutched his phone to his chest, bowed down his head, and stifled his tears. While he'd been trying to find America, his own phone had filled with messages from his heads of state.

He needed to be a country now, to reassure his own people.

* * *

><p>At the parliament building England helped coordinate the announcement of steadfast support for their allies across the Atlantic and whatever action they would take in the future, but his head wasn't in it. He felt impatient about getting it over with.<p>

He hurried to the airport now, to board one of the only humanitarian flights to aid the US. The entire US airspace had been closed down, but with Canada's help he was able to take one of the few flights from Heathrow to Montreal, where they would board a joint military flight to New York lead by the Royal Canadian Air Force and American Air Force.

When he arrived he made his way to the gate quickly checking in and trying to look for the person he was meeting.

France was on the plane already, shakily drinking a cup of coffee.

They bickered a bit about whether it was wise to have a hot drink during take off, but their hearts weren't in it.

"Do you want it? It's too hot and I think we're taking off now." France asked, offering the coffee.

"I suppose." Already grimacing at the taste, he sputtered while taking his first swig.

"I spiked it, a bit."

It was well spiked.

"How was your flight?" He asked France.

"C'était bon, it was a military flight, we left quickly and I was thankful for that."

Last year, France had complained to him about having to switch to first class, because his private jet had become too expensive for the French economy.

France was quiet and stared out the window.

"Were you able to speak with Canada in person?" he asked, somewhat hesitantly.

France shook his bowed head, his long hair covering most of his face. "No, I spoke to a secretary at the cabinet. They weren't sure who I was, but she was very helpful.

"I'd imagine he's busy at the moment. I heard they rerouted all of the incoming US air traffic to Canada. Even in Canada, practically everything is grounded. That's why he's not answering, non?" France looked up at him, his eyes hopeful.

England found his mouth go dry, his heart aching at all of the times he'd forgotten Canada, America's forgettable little brother. He swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to sound reassuring for France.

"Canada's smart, he won't take any unnecessary risks."

Unlike some other countries we know. He regretted his choice of words immediately, and the unsaid implication was left unspoken between them.

Looking down at the coffee in his hand, he gulped down the entire contents. His throat burned with the hot liquid, and he was thankful for the hurt, because it kept his mind from more painful thoughts.

He closed his eyes as the engine started.

* * *

><p>It took an hour longer to land in Montreal. As soon as they landed, France turned on his cell phone to check messages.<p>

"Oh mon dieu, I have a message from Canada."

A look of relief flooded his features as he listened to the message.

England checked his own messages. There was one from Canada, one from his own parliament, one from the Queen of England and a few from numbers he didn't recognize. With the exception of Canada's cell, they all had UK extensions.

There were no messages from America.

He saved Canada's message, and quickly sorted through the others, listening to the important ones and deleting some of the messages from unknown numbers if it didn't sound important enough within the first few seconds.

Like bloody hell he'd let his voicemail fill up when America could be trying to call him.

From his messages, he found out that both towers had collapsed while he'd been working on the announcement, and that the pentagon had also when hit.

"Did Canada call you?" France asked

"Uh, I thought it might be faster if you told me, so I've saved it."

France nodded, "We're going to a military base, they're prepping a plane to fly into New York right now. It will be ready by the time we get there."

"Are you coming too?" I asked, somewhat surprised.

"Of course. As I have always said, he is my little brother too."

England did not argue with him.

"Have you heard anything?" France asked, concerned and putting his hand on England's knee.

For once, England was thankful for the affectionate Frenchman's touch.

"Both towers have collapsed, and the pentagon has been hit."

France nodded, "I heard the same, in addition it appears they are unsure of the location of their president."

"I haven't heard anything from America."

England looked up at France, hopeful but slightly ashamed to show his vulnerabilities... "Did he call you?"

France sighed, "Chére, I promise you that I know that he would call you first. Remember the past, non?" France sounded slightly bitter, but England didn't have the heart to say anything. He felt a little bit of his hope die, at the moment he truly didn't care if America called France first.

"We'd better get going! We're meeting Canada at a military base here." France said while grabbing his carry on and practically running over the other passengers.

The airport was completely overrun with people that had been displaced.

When they weren't able to find their limo, France managed to flag down a cab. They directed it to the military base in a blur.

When France saw Canada, he ran up to him and pulled him into an embrace. They stood that way for a few minutes, speaking in rapid French.

"Thank goodness you're safe, mon petit chou! I was so worried you would run off and try something stupid."

England tried to block out the French. As much as he hated to admit it over the years he had picked up the language of his Atlantic neighbor. He didn't need to hear what France was thinking, because he was thinking it too.

Canada looked completely worn out, his normally unruly hair completely tangled and he was dressed in a suit instead of his casual slacks and sweatshirts. They were surrounded by a crowd of officials, running around with papers and cell phones, a mess of bureaucrats trying to handle the influx of misplaced vacationers and international business travelers.

It was strange to see the normally recessive boy in the spotlight, directing others.

Standing to the side, he had to admit he felt an ache of jealousy at France and Canada's closeness. He'd always felt like an outsider wherever he went, and had even caught himself harboring feelings of jealousy over Germany and Italy's relationship.

He doubted his reunion with America would be anything like it …if he ever did see him again.

None of the countries were absolutely sure of the extent of their own mortality. No one could say what would happen if they were seriously injured, and while they didn't die of old age, they could still die.

What if America was in the tower when it fell? Would he die?

England didn't know.

Suddenly, he didn't care anymore what sort of reception he got, he just wanted to see America again, hear his voice. He'd give anything to know he was safe.

Canada cleared his throat, obviously a little embarrassed about his display of affection in front of his subordinates. He bobbed his head in acknowledgement towards England.

"I'll take you to the plane, but I can't go with you. I need to stay here and take care of these people. Come, the plane is waiting on you."

"Canada, I can't begin to thank you for this." I replied, jogging to keep up with the taller man.

"England?"

"Yes?"

"Just find him?" Canada glanced over his shoulder when he said it, and for a split second England saw the worry and concern written all over his face. Canada and America didn't always get along, but in they were alike in more than just looks. They both had raised themselves practically without any help from outsiders, two mysterious children that had wondered out of this vast and untamed wilderness.

As they boarded the plane, he drew Canada into an unexpected hug. He was surprised by the affectionate kiss the boy gave him on the check.

"Take care of yourself too, England."

* * *

><p>It was shocking, looking at the empty airport, especially having come from the bustling and overflowing airport from a few hours ago. The tarmac was filled with empty planes and no people.<p>

As they stepped onto the Tarmac a gust of wind blew a thick, cloying eddy of smoke into their faces. England was practically bent over trying to cough it out.

France had a handkerchief held over his mouth and England followed suit.

It reminded him of the Industrial Revolution, the thick black smoke practically blocking out the blue sky.

Disturbed by the imagery, England kept his head down as he plodded into the airport and towards the sounds of sirens.

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><p>Comments are appreciated!<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Not good.

He had started coughing in his mask. The smoke was starting the get through his protective gear into his lungs. In the towers the haze was so thick he could barely see despite the light strapped to his head. He tried to stifle it, hoping that the man he'd been working with hadn't heard. He couldn't afford to go back, not now.

He knew there was someone on this floor. There was an American trapped on this floor damn it, and he could feel it.

He'd been searching through the wreckage for hours now, arriving on the scene after the first tower collapsed. Immediately he'd looked for a fire engine and talked to the man in charge. He said he was a firefighter from out of town, he wanted to volunteer, and he wasn't going to take no for an answer. They didn't exactly have the time to chat so the commander threw a spare suit at him and told him to get ready. He'd been searching through broken concrete for survivors ever since.

America tried to make his way cautiously, trying to walk only where support system under the floorboards was. It wouldn't do for him to need rescuing, not when he was the hero.

"Hey America!" The firefighter he'd teamed up with called, trying to get his attention.

It felt good to use his real name, even if the other person didn't know it was his name.

They'd started out as a big group, but after the second tower had collapsed on them many of their members had been seriously injured. One of the rookie firefighters had been hurt bad, pinned under an impossible weight. He was scared and America had tried to talk him through it while they tried to dig him out. The man asked his name, and unthinkingly he gave his real name. He panicked for a second, they were supposed to use their pseudonyms when they interacted with people in the world, but the man had just chuckled, half choking. The rookie firefighter had smiled once, and with all his strength replied "I am America." before passing out.

The other guys in his unit had picked it up, each in turn shouting "I am America" as the uninjured ones dug out their buried comrades. Since then, he'd been working with whomever he could find, and a few of them had started calling him "America" as a nickname and shouting "I am America" when they started to get discouraged.

It gave them hope.

He walked over to the other man who was looking at a collapsed section of the floor. They were around the thirteenth floor, although he wasn't sure if it mattered anymore considering most of the floorboards had collapsed the levels were practically indistinguishable from each other.

"I don't like the look of this floor. We should get out, I think it's going to collapse soon." The firefighter said.

"I think we have some time, I'm going to take a quick look. I thought I heard something." America responded, surveying the floor.

"Make it quick."

"Hear that?" Barely discernible over the sounds of the sirens he thought he heard breathing. Was he imagining it? He couldn't shake the feeling there was someone trapped down here.

"I don't hear anything."

"Just a quick look, I promise."

America started at one end of the floor, trying to peer through the rubble, looking for spaces that looked big enough for someone to be trapped. He searched systematically, starting at the far left and making sweeps across the floor. About half way through, he saw an odd shape in the debris and went to take a look.

It was a finger.

The finger led to an arm, one half buried under what looked like a collapsed desk. He took the hand, intending to look for a pulse, when the fingers grasped weakly, but desperately back.

"I've found someone!" he yelled over his shoulder and heard the firefighter curse behind him.

"Hold on, we're going to get you out of there." He continued in an attempt to reassure the most probably terrified man.

The firefighter looked up from examining the trapped man, cursing again. It looked like the desk was pinned by a large beam, but that same beam was the only reason that the man hadn't been crushed by rubble from the floor above.

"He alive?"

"Yeah, we've got to get him out of there!

With an ominous noise, the beam started to bend before their eyes.

The firefighter cursed.

"There's no time, you've go to trust me! I'm going to hold up the beam" America shouted, bracing his arms underneath the beam.

"But that's impossible!" The other man yelled.

Ignoring him, America used his abnormal strength to lift the beam a foot, just enough space for the firefighter to start pulling apart the desk and free the trapped survivor.

"Hurry!" he yelled, the weight considerable even for him. The firefighter managed to remove enough debris and pull the man out, but as he did the strain became too much for the floorboards underneath them.

With a horribly loud crack, he felt the floor give a foot underneath him, then crumble away entirely. America slammed into the floor below as a ton of rubble rained down on him.

"Shit-shit-shit!" He heard from above. "You still alive down there?"

"I'm fine! Did you get the man out?" America called back, trying to sound normal. He tried to move, but couldn't.

"You're a lucky son of a bitch! I'm okay, I managed to pull this guy out of the way before it all came down," firefighter responded.

"Don't worry about me! He can't wait, take him to an ambulance. I'll find another way out."

"I'll try to come back for you!" he firefighter said as America heard him pick up the unconscious man.

"That's alright, I'll radio the team if I run into any problems. Try to find someone that needs you." It was a lie, he didn't have a radio much less a team to contact, but America didn't want someone coming back to look for him when they could be saving someone else.

As he heard the other man leave, he looked down...

Not good.

* * *

><p>"Damn you bloody frog! I'll find a way in if it kills me!"<p>

"Do you want to be arrested? Do you think getting yourself locked up is going to help America? What if he's already been injured? Have you thought of that?"

England's retort died on his lips. He had thought of that, of him bleeding out somewhere alone…

Sucking in a breath, he tried calm himself down. France as right, getting himself arrested wasn't going to help anyone.

"I'm going to speak to one of the nurses," France said, stalking off. He'd been unexpectedly reasonable for the past few hours, and England had to admit he'd been taking out all of his frustration on the other country.

All of the roads leading to the world trade center had been blocked off by the police, rightly holding back anyone trying to go back to rescue their loved ones. After England got them nearly arrested trying to break through them, France pulled him towards the nearest first aid shelter and declared they would be starting their search there.

For some reason, the thought of America already injured, lying somewhere in a hospital bed hadn't occurred to him. God, what if he couldn't talk, wasn't conscious? What if no one knew who he was? He could be in the same building right now and England had no way of knowing it.

He swallowed resolutely, and vowed to himself that he wouldn't fail in this. He would find America, no matter where he was in this bloody mess.

They started searching through every makeshift first aid building and hospital in the vicinity, trying to get descriptions, or speak to anyone that knew about the patients being treated. In the smaller shelters they were able to look through, ask if any of the patients had seen someone matching America's description, but at the larger centers the survivors had been injured more seriously. Half of their patients were unconscious, some of them beyond recognizable because of their injuries, and others names were forgotten as they were rushed into surgery to save them from their mortal wounds.

It was frustrating work, they couldn't find him and couldn't rule any place out, but England was thankful for it. It meant they didn't have to start searching the dead.

England hoped that America would remember to use his pseudonym, Alfred F. Jones, or have his wallet with him. He didn't know how else to look for him.

France had been taking the lead, asking questions at the front desk, while England became more and more irritated.

"His name is Alfred F. Jones, he's five-ten, blonde hair, wears glasses…"

Would he even be able to recognize him? Was he buried in a pit of rubble somewhere, dying? Worse, was he dying alone in some hospital room, one nameless face amongst many?

Trying to desperately push the dark thoughts out of his mind, he listened as France questioned another nurse.

The nurse interrupted, "I'm sorry sir, but identification is not our priority-"

England snapped.

He jumped on the bloody front desk and screamed at the top of his lungs "Has anyone seen a muscular, five-ten, blonde haired, spectacles wearing moron that goes by bloody fucking Captain America!"

It was at that moment he realized he was screaming at the top of his lungs on top of the counter like a bloody lunatic.

"You're looking for a guy named America?"

England wheeled around, looking at the speaker.

She was a paramedic, and although she was covered in blood and gore, to him she looked like an angel.

Flushing from his head to his toes from embarrassment he jumped down and made his way to the paramedic.

"You've seen…America?" England asked, not daring to hope that it could actually be him.

Why would he be going by his real name?

"I think it could be... There's a group of firefighters that have been shouting 'I am America' at ground zero. Do you think one of them could be him?"

The girl had obviously just dropped off another injured victim, and led the way to a sink where she started to scrub up, probably on her way out.

England heart ached with renewed hope. That did sound like him!

"Have you talked to any of them? He's five-ten, muscular, he has blonde hair-"

"Sorry-" She interrupted, "Most of the guys are wearing firefighter masks…and I've been bringing people in all day."

"But- that war cry, I guess, 'I am America," I thought that sounded a bit like your friend."

Suddenly, her walkie-talkie burst to life, "Sharon? Are you ready to go, over?"

"Roger, be there in five. Over and out."

"Look, I don't have time to talk. I'm going back there, I'll try to keep an eye out for your friend-"

"Take me with you!" he said, grabbing her arm-

She looked shocked for a minute. Then her whole face went red and she screamed "Are you nuts? Do you know dangerous it is right now?"

He refused to let go of her arm.

"Look, I'm don't give a bleeding shit how dangerous it is, I know he's there and I'm going to find a way to him with you or without you!"

Looking torn, the paramedic said, "Let go! I have to go, now!"

"Please, I'm begging you!" he said desperate.

"I can't, it's against the law-"

"Screw the bleeding law! It's chaos in out there, and if I die because of my own stupidity well that's on my head! I'm just asking you for a way in, then you never have to see me again"

Gritting her teeth and growling she said, "Fine, you have a death wish? I don't have time to argue with you, let go of me and try to keep up."

As soon as he dropped her hand, she sprinted out the emergency doors. England was at her heels.

Pulling out her walkie-talkie, she spoke into it. "I'm almost there. Be ready to leave, over."

She dashed to an ambulance and climbed into the back area, holding the door open. He threw himself inside without a thought.

"Go George!"

The ambulance peeled out, and England sat heavily on the floor of the ambulance. Come to think of it, the last time he was in an ambulance was after a nasty bombing during WWII. God, what the hell was he doing?

He snorted at his own stupidity.

"Hey, Sharon, is there someone back there with you?"

"Yeah, some love-sick idiot that wouldn't let me go until I promised to bring him to his boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend," England said, lamely.

What was America to him? Nothing, really, on the surface they had been allies these past few decades. They weren't even proper friends...

...but if he was honest with himself...

"Wow, officer Paisley, breaking the rules! I thought that was my job." George said, looking back at them.

"Shut up and drive George."

"I hope he's worth it to you, because we're headed straight into hell."

With those words, the ambulance careened to a stop at the base of the towers.

There were already people lying on the ground, more of them than the paramedics could handle, and piles of rubble, smoke and ash so thick England could barely breath. He got out of the ambulance as fast as he could, trying to stay out of the way as they picked up one of the injured and started prepping a stretcher.

He looked around at the devastation and thought of the many bombings that he'd seen in his long life. It really never got easier, but he was here now. Here where he needed to be, because while on the surface America might not be anything to him... when he was honest with himself...

...America was everything to him.

* * *

><p>Wow~ I'm surprised with how many people have reviewed! Thanks guys!<p>

I've been writing this totally off the cuff, without much beta'ing, but I promise that I will clean it up when I finish! I'm just trying to get everything out while I'm getting ideas. Let me know what you think :)


	3. Chapter 3

England cursed. He'd thought that if he could just get here, everything would fall into place. Looking around the scene, he didn't have the foggiest idea where to start looking for America. It was complete chaos. There were firefighters digging people out of the wreckage, many of the police officers assigned to security had abandoned their posts to help, and there were people injured and dying in the street, and all of this was occurring amidst a background of deafening sirens from a sea of emergency vehicles. It was all he could do to stay out of their way as they rushed to and fro.

Curiously, for a second he saw a swirl of green out of the corner of his eye and could have sworn it was one of his fairy friends but as he reflexively turned to look he saw nothing out of the ordinary.

England noticed a lone girl. There wasn't much to differentiate her from others in the crowd and she didn't look injured, but she was shouting and crying. It looked like she was trying to get the attention of a fireman, but he didn't even stop to spare her a glance. He watched as she ran to another fireman, and then a policeman, but none of them so much as paused. Something about it was wrong, he didn't know what, but it was drawing him to find out. With some trepidation England found himself cautiously making his way to the solitary figure. She was turned away from him and he reached out to get her attention.

"Miss? Do you…"

He stopped mid-sentence, staring as his hand passed freely through the girl's shoulder. It was then he realized why the girl hadn't been able to get the attention of any of the firemen.

She was already dead.

Hearing his voice the apparition turned around. She raised head to look at him, her incorporeal eyes bright with ethereal tears and said something that was drowned out by the wail of the sirens.

"What?" he tried to shout over the din.

"Can you see me?" She yelled.

"I can see you!" He shouted, knowing he was far too late to help this lost soul.

"You're safe now! You don't have to be scared anymore!" He tried to reassure her with his voice.

He knew why he had been drawn to her now. In the past he'd helped several souls pass on, but he didn't have time now.

He needed to find America before it was too late.

"No not me!" the girl shouted, indignant, "my friend is still on the tenth floor! You have to help me!" she tried to grab his shoulder, but her fingers passed through him. He shivered at the sudden cold as she glared at her own hands.

"Why can't I touch you?" she asked accusingly.

England looked at her with pity. She didn't even know that she was dead.

He didn't have time to explain, not when there was someone that needed help.

"Never mind that. Your friend, where is she?"

"She's trapped on the tenth floor, we have to hurry! She's lost consciousness! I'm the only one that knows where she is. I've been trying to get someone's attention, but it's like they don't even see me." She explained as tears spilled down her cheeks and she almost hyperventilated, despite no longer needing to breathe, "You have to help me!"

After he took a breath to compose himself England came to a decision. He couldn't leave someone that was injured.

"We'd better hurry then. I'll help you get her out."

She nodded, then turned around and ran towards the left tower.

England struggled to keep up with the ghost. In her haste she hadn't noticed that she was running through the wreckage, the same wreckage that England was hopelessly tripping over. The left tower loomed in front of him ominously; blacked and crumbled it was truly a horrific sight, but he had to go in there.

He gritted his teeth and willed himself forward.

Thick black smoke greeted him as he opened an emergency exit door and he was momentarily overcome by a coughing fit. A band of emergency lights were the only illumination in what looked like a mostly intact stairwell. He'd made it inside.

"Wait for me!" he called between coughs, already having lost sight of his guide.

They spent an hour making their way to the tenth floor; England had to travel carefully, at times in an almost pitch black with only his touch and the girl's ghostly voice to guide him. Eventually they came to a door.

"Through here!" the ghost said as she walked through it effortlessly.

England tried to push it open, but the frame was warped and the door jammed. He pushed on the latch in an attempt to wriggle it open, to no avail.

"Bloody hell!" he cursed. Should he try to break the door down? He didn't want it to collapse on him in the process. Best not to risk it.

"Oi! Come back! I can't get through this way."

Unexpectedly, a familiar voice answered him, "England?"

A shiver ran through him. He'd recognize that voice anywhere.

"America!"

"Is that really you, England?"

The feeling of relief that washed over him was immediate.

"It's me! Thank God, I've found you!"

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm looking for you, you bloody git. Now open the door, I'm right here." America would be able to force it open with his Herculean strength.

"I can't, I'm stuck."

He felt a knot form in his stomach.

"Are you hurt?"

"Not really, but my arms are pinned."

He'd have to take a chance and hope that the doorway was sound enough to withstand the shock.

"Hold on, I'm going to break down door!"

England stepped back from the door, he took a breath to steady himself, and with the practiced ease he'd gained during his privateering days he ran the short distance to the doorway and kicked at the lock. The door flew open and he spilled into the room. The activity knocked loose a cloud of dust and he started to cough.

"England! That was so cool!"

England ran to the voice. He couldn't see all of America, he was almost completely covered in rubble from the floor above, but through the small cracks he surmised the younger nation was on his back, his arms pinioned beside him, buried underneath at least three feet of concrete and building material. Leaning his head at an angle and peering through the tangle he was able to make out the shape of a fireman's helmet.

"Are you injured?" England asked worriedly, trying to make sense of the mess.

"I need to straighten my forearms if I'm going to push this off."

England started to pull the chucks of building off of America, but pile began to shift under his ministrations and he heard America gasp in pain.

"Bugger!" he cursed, asking "Are you alright?"

"I'm okay, it's just that something's pushing on my chest." His voice was strained, and it made England worry all the more.

England cursed. He couldn't afford to pick away at the pile piece by piece, he needed a way to lift as much refuse off of him as possible and quickly. He surveyed the room to see what he could use and spotted some piping that had come loose, which gave him an idea.

"Hold on. I'm going to lift this mess enough for you to get your arms in place, but you're going to have to push the rest off. You better get ready."

The pipe was four inches thick and looked like it was made of steel; England wasn't sure if it would be strong enough but it was the strongest looking thing in the room. He'd have to use some of the dislodged concrete as a fulcrum. The heavy weight of the pipe reassured him somewhat as he took hold of it.

He half kicked, half dragged a concrete slab with a shallow groove on its face into position. Getting the pipe under something solid and strong enough to lift the rest would be the hardest part. Slowly, he fed the pipe into what looked like the beams that had once supported the floor above. The free end jutted out of the wreckage. He sent out a silent prayer that this would work.

"I'm not going to be able to hold this for long, if it works at all. Are you prepared to push?"

"Say the word, Capitaino!"

England rolled his eyes, but managed to refrain from commenting.

"Go!" he burst as he heaved with all his might upon the pipe, slamming one end down while the other jerked up.

Almost too fast for his eyes to follow he saw the floorboards lift up a foot, and then the whole pile seemed to explode outwards into motion spraying dirt and dust everywhere.

When the grit settled America was on his knees where the pile of rubble had been.

Crouching next to him, England asked, "Are you alright?"

"Yup!" was the chipper response as America gave him a thumbs-up.

Rather than be reassured by this, England felt all of his worry and frustration transform into annoyance as he smacked America on the back of the head.

"You daft idiot! I was worried sick about you! Do you realize that no one knew where the hell you were? The military has been out looking for you!"

England could not see his expression through the firefighter's suit, but he did see the casual shrug as America rubbed at the back of his head.

"I went where I needed to be."

"You didn't even tell your heads of state! Do you even know what's been going on without you? That you've been attacked? No, you just blindly abandoned it all and ran off to play hero! Typical!" England groused.

"The politicians will take care of all that stuff England. It's the people that need this. C'mon, we better get you out of here. What are you doing here anyway?"

Oh shit, he'd almost forgotten!

"Wait, I followed a girl up here. I promised to help her get her friend out." He looked around searching for her figure.

Now it was America's turn to sound angry. "You brought someone up here?"

"No of course I didn't drag some girl up here, she's already passed on! She has unfinished business."

America looked panicked and swung his head around while he said, "A ghost? You brought a ghost in here?"

"Just stop it! Stop it right there! We do not have time for you to have a bloody fit over her! We have to go find her friend, and I'll remind you that this morning she was alive and well, and she deserves our help as much as any breathing person, got that?" England ordered.

America's shoulders slumped, but he nodded his head. England's commanding tone seemed to have had an effect on him. He seemed to be talking to himself now.

"She's a fresh ghost, so I guess it's not so bad, and besides she's an American," England heard him swallow audibly, then he continued, "Where is she?"

America still sounded fearful, but it appeared that England had managed to curtail his panic attack. He remembered what the ghost had said before she went through the door and reasoned that she had to be in this room somewhere. He spotted her near a crumpled form that was curled up under a partially intact desk, fitfully trying to rouse her friend. He walked over and squatted down next to her, careful to make sure that he didn't intrude on her body. While touching ghosts elicited unpleasant sensations, his main reason for avoiding it was that he thought it rather rude to stand in someone else's body. First, he checked the girl's pulse and breathing. She had a nasty gash on her head, but otherwise seemed unharmed.

"Why can't I touch her…?" the apparition said to herself between sobs. Not knowing what to say, England carefully picked her unconscious friend up in a fireman's carry.

"I can carry her," America offered, then cleared his throat.

"You'll do no such thing, not until you're checked out by a paramedic."

Even though America was behind him and wearing a fireman's suit England could tell he was pouting. "Stop pouting and let's get out of here."

"I'm not pouting." America said churlishly. He cleared his throat again.

England would have rolled his eyes had the situation not been so grave. "Enough of that, lead us out of here." He said, giving America a task to complete. He turned towards the door with the girl in his arms.

"Okay! The hero will lead the way to safety!" America said brightly, one fist clenched and upraised in no doubt what he thought was a heroic pose.

"Right, lead the way, hero." England intoned sarcastically.

England had to admit that America did a surprisingly good job leading them to safety. He would scout ahead, test the integrity of the floor, clear what obstacles he could, and then he would double back to assist England in navigating around those he could not. He might have been more stubborn about obeying America's suggestions if he had not been carrying an injured person, but as it was he was grateful for the help. He was becoming more concerned as he listened to America's directions, his voice sounded hoarse and strained, even if his unflagging cheerfulness remained. They left the building without incident and he was able to deposit the injured girl into the waiting arms of a paramedic.

"Mission accomplished! Now the hero must return to his unfinished business!" America said as he turned back towards the towers.

England desperately clamped his hand around America's shoulder and tried to spin him around. It had no real effect, what with his supernatural strength, but it was enough to make America stop and look at him.

"Like hell I am going to let you go back in there without so much as a check up! You are going to get looked at, like it or not."

"I am fine England! Totally fine! I feel like I could lift a million buses!" America said, in what England could only assume was some feeble attempt to placate him.

"Convincing me you are delusional and nonsensical is hardly a reassurance. You lands have been attacked and that must have had an effect on you." England retorted. "If you're so keen on getting back in there spend five minutes letting a paramedic look at you."

"Alright, alright." America conceded, not sounding in the least bit obliging. He was struck with another coughing fit and England felt an uneasiness settle in his gut. No doubt America had been searching the buildings for hours, breathing in the toxic fumes.

"My throat is a bit sore, but I feel fine! Great, in fact," he protested weakly as he took off the hood to his firefighting suit.

England had to choke back whatever sound was making its way up his throat. America looked truly horrifying; every inch of his exposed skin was a searing red, dried black mucous clung to his nostrils and the corners of his mouth, and worst of all the whites of his eyes were crisscrossed with burst blood vessels, his pupils dilated to the point that only a thin band of blue was visible. He'd wrongly assumed that because America was moving about he would be in good health, and it was then that England realized how poorly he'd prepared himself for this situation.

America's own brow furrowed in concern. "England, are you okay?"

"America," he swallowed thickly, then held out his arms entreatingly, "you look awful. Please, let me bring you to a hospital."

America blinked at him and uncharacteristically did not protest. Perhaps he was too tired to. Without the mask England became acutely aware of America's body language and could see that he was swaying slightly and visibly trembling as if he was barely able to keep himself upright. Periodically a shiver would go through him. Heedless of who might see them England wrapped his arms around the other nation and guided him to the nearest emergency vehicle.

* * *

><p>Yay, an update! Sorry that I've taken so long guys. I've already mentally finished this, but have yet to type it up. Sorry for the roughness of this chapter. I hope that you enjoy it anyway though! Please let me know what you think of it :)<p> 


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